stop moving and that's it
My bro's got a dog. Beatrice, her name. B fo short. B fo beautiful beagle. B for boo - living in New York far from the dog.
Landed some peculiar but generous paying work this week in Soho helping out a friend's girlfriend's mother who is about to purchase a huge chunk of real estate in Harlem. Putting to use those quality 'assistant' skills you've got to offer.
Spend time wondering at what point, the precipice irreversibly crossed, in which people become their parents, adults; when the affectations instantiate and become truth.
You think about your consciousness, how it's impossible to verify. You think about what it means to be intelligent. Most adults can read and articulate themselves. Unless you're highly specialized, life experience becomes the great equalizer. The only necessary reality is what it takes to survive and maintain the wits about one's self.
What is so noble about the quest for truth?
Assassin confronts his target. Before he shoots, he shouts, Here you go.
After firing six shots, he turns the gun on himself and exclaims, Here I go.
You think I have no dreams but I'm a dreamer all right.
Oh yeah? What the hell do you dream about?
I dream about leaping across subway platforms, of defending you against an attacker in heroic fashion, of us being rich.
With agonizing sincerity.
How does a blind man dream?
Straight shot on the C from 109 in Washington Heights to Franklin Ave in Brooklyn. Train won't move. Without movement there is no heat. Spent whole night shivering at friend's with a broken heater. Feel tired like on mornings you had to wake up early for family trips to the airport. Only four hours of sleep. Many people regularly make do on this amount.
It's MLK day. You wonder if your thoughts are worth committing to record. Actively try and arrange them in literary way, even when not jotting down. Stream of consciousness has become affected from too much reading and other influence.
What are any longer your thoughts and not the thoughts you want an audience to hear?
Ulysses as big as a textbook in your jacket pocket. Incomprehensible. 180 pages deep and ready to quit. Seemed like a noble challenge.
In two days you will quit (at least for the meanwhile) and pick up Maugham's The Razor's Edge. It will prove a great relief.